"Jen Knox writes the healthy fiction equivalent of the detox smoothie you’d get if you poured half a cup of Mary Gaitskill, two tablespoons of Mary Robison, a teaspoonful of Raymond Carver, and some chilly Laura van den Berg into a Tom Waits blender and hit puree." —Richard Peabody, editor Gargoyle Magazine on After the Gazebo.
Read Fiction at jmww, Fairlight Books, The Saturday Evening Post, Lunch Ticket, Chicago Review, and SFWP Quarterly. Or click on the quotes below:
"Without Allie, the world is hushed. Even when my brothers roar like lions, Mom stomps around on clunky heels before church, or Jeff—Mom’s house-arrest boyfriend—gets restless and plays Norwegian Metal at decibels that could split an eardrum, I don’t hear much. Everything is static without my sister." from LOST HER WAY
For Essays on leadership and healthy living, find Jen's work at Sivana East, Fiction Southwest, Elephant Journal, and Lead Read Today. I have thoughts on Floating, Cupping, Technology, How to Deal with Bad Days and Writing Exercises to Conquer Fear.
We were born into curiosity and raised with a light touch. We ran around trees and chased ice cream trucks down the street or stared at the world through cameras and recorded what we saw in bound journals.
The crumbling concrete alongside our homes led to narrow alleyways that promised adulthood. We congregated on the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, and marched past the plump blackberry vines and fields of dandelions. Stopping to taste the fruit or flick the heads of flowers into the alley, we enjoyed the last bit of childhood beneath a blue sky. Dirty fingers and playful shoves... (click for more)
Money was born at the backs of her knees. As a young girl she stumbled, and the coins piled up beneath her heels. It was a neat trick that caused her parents to sing the girl’s praises before making their demands and, ultimately, trying to rip from her what they couldn’t see. When the coins were all used up, they disappeared...
AT ONE TIME THEY BELIEVED in fairy tales. They believed in the burnt sugar-scented, cobblestone dreamland that came to life in their mother’s stories. They’d stay up nights discussing life as though it was a soft, sweet thing to sample like the truffles that cooled on wax paper in their kitchen. The perfect, plump chocolates were just waiting to be plucked by tiny fingers. Claire snuck two as Alette drew Pâtisserie Jasmine, a pastel cottage perched on a round, green hill...
The animal that lives in her lower ribcage chitters, trying to get her to play. It loves nothing more than to distract from rational thought. She chuckled the first time she heard the phrase “monkey mind” because squirrels are worse. They’re tricksters.
She feeds and cares for her squirrel. Bob Ross would be proud. She feeds it neurosis and sugar, lots of sugar, until the day she thinks something needs to change...